Crossing Bridges
by Shipperwolf
Summary: He was more than what they saw. He was a lot of things. Even if he himself didn't know it. A look at Daryl's journey so far. Multi-chap,'Caryl',possible spoilers and language warning.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey all!**

**Here's some more Daryl-ness from me, with a side of 'Caryl' (eventually).**

**This will be a three-shot, and each chapter is inspired by a different song by the band _Black Label Society_. Each corresponds to a different aspect of Daryl's character and personality as he grows through the show. I may eventually push past the mid-season finale, or I may stop at it. Not certain yet. I highly recommend listening to the songs as well!**

**Enjoy and please review!**

**I disclaim TWD and its affiliates.**

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><p><em>A never ending rolling nightmare with no end in sight<br>I start to drink, get high and smashed, it gets me feeling right  
>The cage is broke, the tank is full, it's where the violence rules<br>Drinkin' booze and raisin' rifles, hell straight through and through_

_'Beserkers', Black Label Society_

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><p>The world wasn't really as bad as they made it out to be….<p>

Not when you have guns that blow holes the size of softballs through dead and rotting skulls.

Not when you have a crossbow and a machete, and both do just damn fine killing things when the gun happens to be too loud.

Not when you have a stash of drugs in your brother's back pocket, just waiting to take everything that was fucked up in the world away to another place.

It wasn't _that_ bad, really…

Daryl couldn't understand why the people around him always looked so _afraid_. It was the end of the world, sure, but….

Something like that was bound to happen eventually, right?

The world just couldn't go on and on forever. Nothing ever did.

And in the end, everyone dies. Not exactly something that can be stopped.

He smiled behind the thin line of smoke trailing from his mouth and looked around at the group they'd reluctantly buddied-up with, all curled around their fires like freshly beaten dogs, watching the woods with wide, white eyes. He laughed and pulled on the joint again.

Merle had his meth, but it wasn't good for nighttime. Not if he wanted some sleep. He only used it before going out, if Merle wasn't being a jackass and hoarding it for himself.

The others thought he was always jacked up on the shit. Apparently even the cop couldn't tell the difference between being high on pot and rushin' on meth….

He snickered a little and waved at the man he presumed to be the "leader" of this posse of pathetic cowards. The glare he received in return had him laughing enough to startle the blond-haired girl nearby.

Crushing the smoldering joint under his boot, he leaned forward to get a better look at the child near the other fire. Wide-eyed and staring at him, she looked just like all the others. Just another dog, beaten down by the shit-party of the new world. He dipped his head a little towards her and grinned when she glanced away. Girl was scared of everything, it seemed.

His eyes rose a bit and found two more staring into his own. Soft and stern and sad all at the same time, they belonged to the woman now draping a protective arm around her daughter.

He offered her a little wave as well.

Might as well be nice before the weed wore off and he remembered how much he hated himself….

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><p>"What the hell? You people act like you never saw a Walker before."<p>

He spat at Shane's boot, bypassing the now splattered brains at his feet. The children in the group were still screaming, being held by their mothers and freaking out over something that was _over and done with_.

He bumped the cop's shoulder hard as he pushed past him. And yeah, he did it on purpose; dumbass took too long to reach for a weapon when the Walker came stumbling toward the camp. He'd been closer, and he'd had the gun in hand.

If 'President Walsh' wanted to start shit on not using the damn thing, he'd be more than happy to oblige.

The little girl stared at him again as he made his way back to his tent.

He was glad she'd finally stopped crying.

He hated hearing kids cry.

"Goddamn pussies…"

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><p>He kind of preferred hunting alone.<p>

Maybe it was more efficient to have Merle with him—after all, four eyes scouting for wild game were better than two—but Merle had a bad habit of never shutting up. He appreciated the need for quiet, and yes, when Merle spoke he did so at a whisper, but _dammit_, sometimes enough was enough...

Besides, Daryl had the quietest projectile-weapon of the group.

And _nobody_ touched his crossbow but him.

There was one problem he found, though, when alone in the woods for hours on end.

It gave him time to think.

And if there was one thing he hated doing, it was thinking.

Thinking meant allowing himself to acknowledge certain things he'd rather not, like the fact that all of the people around him were probably going to end up Walker-chow someday, or the fact that Merle himself would either be killed by a gun in his face when he mouthed off too much, or overdose on something he cooked up too strong…

Or the fact that his life really sucked, and it really wasn't worth living all that much…

Or the fact that his life had _always_ sucked, and living in an apocalypse was actually a tiny bit _better_ than what he had known growing up…

Thinking brought memories.

Memories brought pain.

He'd rather have Merle whispering nonsense in his ear after all, now that he thought about it…

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><p>Anger felt good.<p>

It was something he'd always known, like a familiar food or a good friend.

Or a security blanket.

It felt good to yell, to lash out, to reach up with a balled fist and knock the _snot_ out of someone's head.

It felt good to lunge out at this new guy, this "Rick Grimes", spitting curses and letting all of his concern for Merle spill out in the form of hatred and violence.

It felt good, until 'supercop' caught him in a choke hold (weren't those illegal?) and made him actually _listen_.

He didn't want to hear Rick's words. He didn't want to hear any apologies or promises and he didn't want to hear his brother's name….

He didn't want to do anything but beat someone's face in.

Doing that would make the worry go away. It would make his knuckles sting and push back the tightness in his chest.

Anger felt good, because without it he'd just remember that his brother was all he had….

And that wasn't much, because Merle was a piece of shit and was never there for him anyway….

So anger felt good.

Violence felt good.

It was who he was and he liked it.

And everyone else could just go to hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry for the delay. School and other various distractions, life, blah blah, etc etc...you know. Things and stuff...**

**Anyway, Daryl kicked me in the teeth tonight and demanded I write some. Hope yall enjoy this next chapter! **

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><p><em>This grave of life, I give to you<br>Ignore what was, you know it's true  
>Realms of fear, they speak the truth<br>What has past, I hand to you_

_Bleed for me, I've bled for you_  
><em>Embrace me, child, I'll see you through<em>

_I'll see you _

'_Bleed for Me', Black Label Society_

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><p>It was surprising to him, how one moment could change the way he viewed a person.<p>

Before, he'd only thought of her as submissive and silent and battered, weak in both body and willpower. And as was the nature taught to him, he knew it was not his part to stand up for her.

The older woman had her own life, a dick husband to obey and a shy girl to coddle.

And he had _his_ life: Waking up in the morning, killing things (whether it be a Walker, an animal, or just a few unimportant brain cells), eating, pissing, and sleeping so he could wake up and do it over again.

Such lives weren't meant to cross, and her business was certainly not his.

Hell, he wasn't even sure he had her _name_ right…

But in that moment, the morning after the attack on the camp, that quiet, weak woman made him notice her.

He watched the expression on her face as she smashed her dead husband's head in, that mixture of sorrow and relief and pent-up rage, and suddenly, she was real.

He couldn't look at her and see 'weak' anymore. He couldn't hear her voice and choose to ignore the pain he heard in it. And he couldn't convince himself that her life had nothing to do with his.

Daryl was rarely surprised by anything, especially considering the current circumstances of the world.

But this woman surprised him.

_Carol surprised him. _

He would remember her name from now on.

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><p>Waves of power rushed through his arms with each swing, the loud clang of metal against metal repeating as he arms swung forward again and again.<p>

He didn't care that reality sat in the back of his head, reminding him with a quiet sarcastic snarl that his efforts were in vain.

He didn't care much that the doctor sat still and calm, trying to assure them all that their deaths would be quick and painless and that their panic was only making the end harder for them.

He'd begun to swing that axe the moment it had landed in his hands, and he had no intent to stop despite the obvious futility of it.

He felt the vibrations all the way in his toes and the sharp noises his weapon created was something of a relief to him. He hated to admit it to himself that he was swinging the axe for more than one reason…

Between every single swing, in those split seconds without metal chaos ringing in his ears, he could hear them.

Those kids, crying and panicking.

That girl, sobbing in terror of her imminent and inevitable death.

Her mother, words equally soft and frightened and accusing as she scorned the doctor for trapping them and condemning them to lifelessness.

As his arms pulled back to build momentum once again, he could hear her. Sophia Peletier, a little girl as innocent as anything could be in this damned world, crying and inconsolable. Her tears were matched by the quieter, clipped and yet equally panicked sobs of Rick's boy.

He hated hearing kids cry.

But as he brought the axe down against the metal door, as desperate screams echoed in the large room and angry shouts interrupted them, Daryl realized that it was the sound of _Sophia_ crying that he hated most.

And damn it to hell…

He had no idea why.

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><p>The wind flashed against his face, into his eyes, against his clothes. The harsh rumble of the bike drowned everything out and the bright light of the sun nearly blinded him.<p>

He glanced back at the small convoy that trailed just behind, and for the first time, realized that he was leading the group down the highway.

He wasn't much for leadership, and it seemed more to be the two cops in the group that held a special talent for such things anyway.

Riding ahead of the group felt freeing.

Knowing that they were counting on him in some way felt-

He welcomed the bug that smacked him in the face.

He hadn't wanted to finish that last thought, anyway.

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><p>Pain had always been a larger part of his life than comfort ever had.<p>

Blood was something normal, and whether he was drawing it or excreting it the red liquid seemed more like a companion than something to be feared.

So it really wasn't much bother to him that his side was pierced and bleeding and the burning agony of the injury was preventing him from getting up that hillside. It hurt like hell, sure, but it wasn't something that brought even an ounce of real worry or fear to his mind.

He could bleed all day and consider it normal.

He could hurt in every muscle and extremity and hardly consider it at all.

But when he got back to that farm, and they'd laid him out on that bed, and that woman took the time and care to bring him food and lean down to kiss him, normality took a backseat and his world flipped to its side and screamed in silent shock.

He hadn't meant to flinch away from her.

And he was glad she pretended not to notice.

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><p>The pain was still sharp, but it wouldn't stop him from trying to get back out there.<p>

He felt the wound open up just a little, felt the warmth of the blood trickling out from his side.

He carried the heavy saddle anyway.

And even as he heard Carol's voice calling to him to stop, her concern by now obvious and, in some fucked up way, even accepted in his mind, his body still moved against the pain and the blood and he snapped at her words with his own.

He would not tell her that the image of her little girl, lost and crying, was what made him risk tearing open his wounds completely.

He wouldn't tell her that her own tears pushed him to go back to those woods and not stop until he found her daughter.

Instead, he'd cuss at her and leave her hurt.

It was just his way.

And somehow, he knew she'd accepted that.

_And damn if that didn't make him want to get back out there even more._

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><p><strong>Could I <em>be<em> a more obvious Caryl fan?**


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